


What's the Giant Word for Protector?

by AngelWithAStory



Series: Author’s Favourites [11]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Comfort/Angst, Episode Related, Spoilers, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelWithAStory/pseuds/AngelWithAStory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People could talk for days about Pike and how she was an angel, and they would be right. But so many people forgot her brother.<br/>A character study of Grog Strongjaw </p><p>Spoilers for episode 64</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's the Giant Word for Protector?

**Author's Note:**

> ohboyohboyohboy  
> I've been up since 2:30 am and I just finished this
> 
> oh god that episode killed me and I have to get it out of my system. So many people are talking about Percy and Vax and Tibsy but I spent the whole time thinking about Grog for some reason. I've been thinking a lot about Grog tbh
> 
> once again, _major_ spoilers for ep 64

In his herd, Grog was the runt.

The one the older kids used as a punching bag while they honed their skills and quickened their attacks. The one his uncle would kick around if he so much as spoke out of line. The one who was never as bloodthirsty as his kin.

That would be his downfall in their eyes. Even his father knew so.

Stonejaw stood by as his son was beaten for his empathy. Made no move as his son was cast out and left for dead.

In return, Grog felt little sorrow as he lay dying. He had no final request and no memorable last words.

Grog expected to die in solitude, an outcast and a disgrace.

He didn’t expect to feel warmth again, or to see a glowing light. Or the face of a young gnome and her grandfather looking down at him with the friendliest smiles on their faces.

For the first time in his life, Grog was cared for.

He was tended to: his wounds were cleaned and dressed, they gave him small healing potions and a warm place to stay and rest. In return, Grog gave his loyalty.

They didn’t have to let him stay, and Grog never expected them to. It was natural. One week turned into two. A fortnight turned into a month. A month turned into three, which became six. Which became a year.

Even after Grog was healed, they cared for him and loved him and accepted him wholeheartedly. Even after Grog was healed, he would help them. He helped by finding and collecting firewood in the winter; he helped by carrying food and essential items to and from town when they needed; he helped by being Pike’s friend.

When the other citizens of Westruun threw dirty looks at the teenage Goliath with the teenage Gnome sat on his shoulders, Grog powered through. When the other kids threw stones at them and called him a monster and her weak, Grog stood tall and took the blows. Better him then Pike.

Pike didn’t deserve it, and the kids didn’t deserve his anger, so Grog bared it all. He bared it all and kept his head held high. They had shown him nothing but kindness and Grog wasn’t going to let that go to waste.

 

One thing Grog had learned in his life, was that Gnomes were both fragile creatures and the most resilient creatures Grog had ever come across.

As children, no matter how often Pike scraped her knees or cut her fingers, she would smile and power through. When Death itself tried to come for her, Pike came back and kicked butt. She came back stronger, hardier, but still as gentle and kind as when they found each other.

Scanlan was similar, in a way. The little Gnome was armed with instruments and his wits, and somehow stayed on par with the rest of them. This little Gnome, who took far too much pride in his sexual appeal, always seemed just as powerful as the man with a homemade gun and the twins who could kill you from the shadows.

That didn’t stop Grog from being almost as protective over him as he was with Pike. Almost.

Grog never expected just how much Scanlan would grow on him during their travels. He’d never really understood the lines between people-you-live-and-work-with-and-sometimes-hire-prostitutes-with and best friends, but Grog was beginning to have an idea about that when they walked in the Feywild.

Well, Grog walked. Scanlan sat on his shoulders with a book propped up against Grog’s head and read. It was an odd sight if they weren’t in the Feywild (even then, it was just a little odd). But the walk gave Grog time to think.

Scanlan talked a lot about letting Grog run into situations and take the brunt of the damage. It was a smart plan: Grog could take the hits. It was only sensible to let Grog absorb the hits while the others whittled down the enemy. Better to have one person injured heavily than six people unconscious and dying on the ground.

Grog had seen Scanlan fell an enemy by _insulting_ them. He’d seen Scanlan trick and fool people left, right and center. When he saw Scanlan dancing in the Feywild forest, Grog’s instincts to _protectprotectprotectprotect_ kicked in and he felt Keyleth’s fist hit his face. It took a second for it to register and he barely heard what Keyleth said next.

The pain ignited some familiar fire inside him and Grog could feel the rage creeping over him. He didn’t have long, so he ran for it.

Scanlan was in his arms before Grog could fully register it, but he could feel the tendrils of a song in his mind. Then he felt the bullet wound and his mind cleared. Pain and rage and the urge to _protectprotectprotect_ fueled him as Grog sprinted, Scanlan tucked under his arm. Even if Scanlan did try to hump his arm, when the rage faded, Grog felt a relief wash over him.

His friend was safe. All his friends were safe. _He_ was safe. Relatively. _Enough_.

They were safe _enough_.

And sometimes that was all Grog needed to sleep soundly.

 

Grog liked to think that Vex liked him. He liked Vex.

Her brother was a little shit, but they got on well at the end of the day. Pranks and tricks aside, they were friends and could trust each other in a battle.

Vex was a bit harder to read, Grog found. (Not that he could read much anyway.)

He liked her ability to get things in exchange for the useless junk they picked up during their travels. He liked her ability to shoot fire and lightning and thorns at people. He liked how she never treated him like a monster and how she always seemed to find shiny things. (Even if one of those things meant she was dead for a little while).

They hadn’t known each other for long at all before Grog felt the urge in his mind to protect her in their battles. Maybe it was because Vex liked to use him as cover and tell him funny commentary on the fight, or maybe it was because she sometimes tried to match him drink-for-drink afterwards with their gold from a job well done. (Or a sale well made.)

Either way, they looked out for each other. Vex let him deal the final blow in their fight against Kevdak. Grog protected Garmelie and kept an eye on him when Vex couldn’t. She healed his wound and bargained for him when he was petrified. He shielded her when he threw that Javelin at the fuckface that tried to take their Vex from them.

But the words of the bloodied dagger haunted him. As did Vex’s tearful horror.

Even when his memories were foggy and faded, Grog felt uneasy. He didn’t know why, at least not until Pike took his head in her hands and cleared the magical bullshit that had come over him and Percy.

He remembered the words then. He remembered Vex’s tears.

And that night he knocked on her door.

It was obvious she wasn’t expecting to see him on the other side of her door, but she still talks with him. She listens to Grog as he asks her for her story, and she listens and she tears up as he tells her a story in exchange.

He tells her about how he met Pike. The full story, not the nice, perfumed version they’d told them. Even with the delirious fever that tried to take him and the infected wound and the spells that were under practiced and desperate.

Vex absorbs the story. Then she is quiet for a few moments. Equal exchange: that was the deal they’d made. Vulnerability for vulnerability.

They didn’t talk for a little while. Neither of them pressured for an answer or for speech in general. When Vex began to talk, Grog listened.

“It was shortly after Vax and I set out on our own…” She began, hesitant and twisting her hands together.

Grog listened as she tells the story. It’s obvious she missed some things out, but Grog didn’t press the issue. She told him about the people who kidnapped her. Who wanted to poach her. Who wanted to _hurt_ her in a way that she didn’t specify and Grog didn’t ask.

He listened as her voice lightened when she talked about Trinket. Not his mother, but Trinket. The bear was asleep on the floor of Vex’s borrowed room in Whitestone, snoring softly through the story. Grog always liked Trinket, but the story made him look at the bear in a bit of a new light. Not a negative light. Just a new one.

He looked at Vex in a new light as well. Saundor’s words made more sense, but they were also more _wrong_. He called her broken. He told her that she dragged her friends and her family down. He tried to _use_ her for his own gain.

Like Kevdak.

Like Kevdak had been.

Grog told her that and Vex seemed to relax a little. It was easier to think of that way.

The sky was darkening and Grog left Vex’s room. She seemed _happier_ somehow. Maybe it was better to share bad experiences? It made them seem less _lonely_ , at least.

The exchange was weird for Grog. He wasn’t good at the whole talking and _feelings_ thing. Grog’s specialty was smashing things with his warhammer. That’s how he killed. That was how he protected his family.

But words were useful too, sometimes, Grog supposed.

 

Humans were squishy. Then again to Grog, most things were squishy and a bit frail. No matter how much shit they talked, or how much they tried to pretend they weren’t weak, humans couldn’t take a lot of damage.

Grog had seen Percy take out demons and monsters and _dragons_ with his guns. These weird weapons that he built himself and hurt like a _bitch_ but occasionally smoke and backfire; these weapons that Grog had never seen before that he couldn’t see actually _hit_ the thing Percy was aiming at; these guns that made Percy feel safe and made him brave.

Guns couldn’t protect Percy from falling fifty feet straight down.

Grog felt the rope go slack under his grip and gravity began to kick in. He’d fallen before. Usually from trees. Sometimes from buildings. Once from a dragon, but he’d been an eagle then so he wasn’t sure if that really counted.

Percy didn’t fall a lot. Definitely not from fifty feet up (and Grog wasn’t sure if Percy had ever fallen from a tree but he assumed not, considering). It was meant to be just a look around before they were to get some of the Vestiges. It was a risk in the first place.

The ground began to rush towards them and Grog was thankful that he’d gone first. A plan formed in his mind as the rocks came ever closer.

He reached out and made to grab Percy, getting his feet underneath him. His legs ached with the force of it, and Percy slammed into him. The momentum was enough to knock Grog off his feet and down the rest of the way to the snowbank.

They rolled down the rock until Grog felt a sharp cold on his skin. When they rolled to a stop, Grog loosened his arms and Percy quickly moved into his own space out of Grog’s.

Sharp rocks stuck out of Grog’s thick skin and he brushed them off, ignoring the ache in his muscles and the small bruises.

He could take the damage a hundred times over. Percy couldn’t.

Yeah, Percy talked a lot about _legacy_ and _lineage_ and how his family dated back centuries, but humans didn’t live long. Grog had been around enough elderly humans to know that they get older _much_ quicker than he did. Or Half-Elves did. Or even Gnomes did. Look at Wilhand, he was _really_ old and stick kicking.

Grog would never say any of that out loud, especially not to Percy or the others. But it was true.

Grog didn’t know much, but he knew that.

 

Grog couldn’t protect him. As he held Tiberius’s cold and frozen body (lighter than he remembered), Grog knew he had failed. Tiberius had left and Grog couldn’t protect him. Couldn’t take the blow for him. Couldn’t be the meat shield. Couldn’t be the one to be frozen in ice and restored later when all the others were safe.

Grog had failed, and it cut him deeper than any blade could.

Even when Cravenedge whispered in his mind and tried to steal his life; even when Grog was losing to Kevdak once again; even when Grog had been petrified for trying to be diplomatic, he was still trying to protect his friends.

He couldn’t protect his friends if they were dead.

The books were nice, Grog thought, even if he never really understood why Tiberius liked them. Grog remembered all the books back in Emon and wondered if they were still there. Maybe Thordak was reading them, learning how to speak magic like Tiberius used to. The thought would have been amusing almost any other day.

He pulled out the chalice and instinctively reached for the ale, but then he stopped. Tiberius never drank ale. All their nights in taverns and all those pub crawls, Tiberius never drank ale or beer with the rest of them.

He drank water. So Grog honoured him with water.

Grog wasn’t good with death. Well, he was good with the _idea_ of death, and dealing it out to enemies, but he wasn’t good with mourning. It wasn’t something that he’d ever really grown to understand (like a lot of the world, really). With the Herd of Storms, if someone died they were honoured and then their death was accepted and the herd moved on. Bodies were burnt on pyres, their tales were told in their wake, the rest lived to fight another day. Mourning was never really part of the equation.

Tiberius was somewhere _better_ now. Somewhere without those dragon _fucks_ , where there was plenty of water and lots of books and magic.

Keyleth collapsed on the ground above the library and Grog understood. To them, death was only permanent if they weren’t there to see it. Magic and dumb luck and Pike had kept them alive this long. As long as they were together, somehow they stayed alive.

It was so opposite and backwards from the Herd that Grog grew up with, but it was better somehow.

Tiberius was his friend and a brave warrior. He deserved a warrior’s burial. But for now, the books would do.

 

That night - the night after Tiberius was buried - Grog didn’t sleep.

He waited for everyone else to go to sleep in their room, and he picked up his axe. He left his room and walked to the far end of the corridor, so he had a view of every door.

Quietly, Grog sat on the floor, his back against the cold stone wall. The axe lay across his lap, his hands resting on its hilt.

And he sat. And he watched.

Realistically, there was no immediate threat. Whitestone was bubbled. His friends slept with their windows and their doors locked. The castle itself had guards keeping watch.

But Grog still sat on that floor, and he watched over the doors.

Those past few days had been tough for all of them. This wasn’t an act of selflessness or altruism. This was for his own peace of mind. It was almost selfish, in a way, how the only reason Grog watched over them was to shut his brain up with thoughts of more assassains, more Rakshasa, more _enemies_ that they had to face.

Grog was a Warrior. He wasn’t born one. He wasn’t raised to be one, not really. He’d _earned_ that title.

Every moment he protected Pike in his youth, he had _earned_ it. With every monster’s life he had taken to protect his friends, his _family_ , Grog had _earned_ his Warrior title.

It was what drove him to be _better_ , to be _stronger_ , to be _greater_. Reputation didn’t matter to him, that was all for Scanlan. Glory and fame and fortune didn’t mean _shit_ to Grog. Not anymore.

He needed to protect his herd now. They had taken one of them. They weren’t going to take another one.

People could talk for days about Pike and how she was an angel, and they would be right. But so many people forgot her brother.

The outcast Goliath. The Bearded King.  

The Protector, named Grog.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [queenmoggy](http://queenmoggy.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to say hi or cry with me


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